


Dance While You Can

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Confused Crowley (Good Omens), Dancing, M/M, Romance, Sensuality, deliberate memory excision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Aziraphale convinces Crowley to take a refresher ballroom dance class...after all, demons *do* like to dance...and that physical closeness leads to some confused feelings, and to the realization that Aziraphale erased a rather important memory.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 68





	Dance While You Can

One fine Spring morning as they took their customary stroll through St. James Park, Aziraphale said something that sent a chill down Crowley’s spine.

“I have an idea,” he said. “I think what we need is a hobby.”

_We? Hobby?_ Uh-oh. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“I am talking about having something to do. Something fun that we can enjoy together.”

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale was his closest, dearest, best friend, and he was also, at times, one of the most irksome beings he had ever known. _Fun_. What was it with the angel and _fun_? “We have hobbies. We eat out.”

“Yes, well, _I_ eat out. You mostly drink.”

“That’s another one – we drink.”

“ _Not_ what I have in mind. Surely we should have a common interest beyond eating and drinking? I mean, yes – you’ve been helping out at the bookshop from time to time, which is something. Though ‘helping’ may be a rather generous word.”

“ _What?_ ” Crowley halted, grabbing Aziraphale’s arm to stop him. “ _Generous_? You bought _fifty_ boxes of musty old books last week, and you made me stock them on the shelves!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I did not _make_ you do anything. I asked politely. And then afterwards I had to go back and reshelve half of them because you put them in the wrong spots.”

“To hell with the bookshop, then.” He strode off, fuming.

“Wait!” Aziraphale caught him up. “Slow down. I’m sorry.”

Sighing, Crowley slowed his pace, and they resumed their usual stroll again. “I do not need a _hobby_.” He remembered something then. “We play chess!”

There was a set in the bookshop, and they played at least once a week. That took up a good two or three hours. He’d learned the modern version, more or less, in the fifteenth century, and had even beaten Leonardo daVinci at it once.

“Yes, I suppose that’s something. It’s just that we ought to have something more substantial, a way to fill the time now that we’re no longer occupied with Heaven or Hell’s commands.”

Crowley shrugged. “I wasn’t that occupied when I _was_ obeying Hell’s commands.” Never much for hard work, his minor efforts at seeding temptation and fomenting discord among the humans had been half-hearted at best, and lazily handled whenever possible. The human race had been _much_ better at mucking things up all by themselves.

They had reached the lake with its two small islands, and the Blue Bridge, which they started across. Ducks flew in to land near, appropriately, Duck Island, and in the other direction they could see Buckingham Palace through the trees.

“You’re not very occupied _now_ ,” Aziraphale said as they paused midway to lean on the bridge railing. “Don’t you get bored?”

There was no way on Earth he would ever admit to such a thing, even if it were true. Though yes, maybe his days were a bit stale and uninteresting now that he didn’t even have minor demon duties to perform. And there was also no way he was going to admit that being with Aziraphale at the bookshop was the one thing that never bored him, even if all he did was sit on the sofa and watch his irritating best friend who clearly was not going to let this subject drop any time soon.

He watched the ducks paddling about, and upending themselves to feed, and as it was Spring, there were also plenty of drakes squabbling over the females. He liked ducks. “I am not bored.”

“I think you are.”

“Am not.”

“What do you do, then, when you’re not at the bookshop, and not dining, and not drinking?”

Crowley smiled. “I’m terrorizing my houseplants.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I asked you nicely to stop doing that, and you said you had.”

_Damn. He’d remembered._ “Yes, right, fine. I talk nicely to the stupid things.” Honestly.

“What else?”

“I listen to music. Music that you wouldn’t like, so that’s not going to ever be a ‘hobby’ we do together.” 

“Anything more?”

“Movies. You don’t like those, either.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands. “But I like the theatre! It’s not that different from watching a film – we could go to shows together.”

Crowley considered this notion. He’d seen plenty of plays over the centuries, true, before movies were invented. He enjoyed a good comedy. However, he was well aware of Aziraphale’s penchant for musicals, and he thought that people singing and dancing the story instead of simply speaking it was absurd. If he dismissed the idea outright, though, what _else_ would the angel come up with – perhaps stage magic? It didn’t bear thinking about. 

“ _Maybe_ ,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “ _Maybe_ once in a while…if there were a good comedy, that is.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked deflated. “Let’s walk on, shall we?”

They strolled on across the bridge to head north towards Soho. Here he thought he’d given Aziraphale something to satisfy his apparent need for a joint hobby, and it hadn’t seemed to make the angel happy. “Not good enough, going to a play now and then?”

“I was hoping to see a new musical next week. Thought you might join me, but it doesn’t seem you care for them.”

“Too much singing. I don’t like singing. Not that kind, anyway.”

“What about dancing? They do some marvelous numbers. I thought demons liked dancing.”

“We do.” He did, actually, enjoy dancing. He’d done quite a bit of it in the 1960s and 70s. He hadn’t been to a nightclub in decades. Somehow he didn’t think Aziraphale would care for the sort of dancing done in those places. 

“ _I_ like dancing!” Aziraphale stopped again and turned to face him. “We _do_ have an interest in common!”

“Really?” Crowley raised his eyebrows. “When was the last time you went to a dance?”

Aziraphale frowned in concentration. “Well…um…I believe it was 1913. Or thereabouts. Shortly before the Great War made everything so unpleasant.”

“Not exactly _au courant_.”

“Doesn’t matter – there are classic dances still done today. Waltzes, foxtrots, the quickstep. Pity about the gavotte, though.”

“That’s ballroom dance.” He hated ballroom dance. Naturally, he had learned the basic ones back when they first developed, because, like any demon, he _did_ enjoy dancing and he made a point of keeping up with the latest fashions in all things. Thus, when the waltz or the foxtrot or the tango was new and trendy, he learned it. 

And when those went out of style, he moved on. Only people stuck in the past bothered with ballroom dancing these days. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale walked on, and Crowley fell into place alongside him. “Ballroom dance is alive and well – it’s actually had a great resurgence of late. I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.”

“Obviously _you_ have.” Damn. Was the angel planning to make him take up the waltz again? 

“I have seen an article now and then in the _Times_ about competitions in the city. Nothing more. There must be ballrooms here, as there were in the past, but I haven’t gone looking – no one to go with, you see.”

Crowley picked up on the wistful tone right away. Aziraphale was a past master of the longing, wistful tone. He sighed. He had a presentiment that he was about to do something he would soon regret. 

“I suppose you want to ‘look into it’ as a…a ‘hobby’?” He nearly instantly regretted saying it already. “Even though I am _not_ bored?”

Aziraphale grasped his jacket sleeve. “Would you? At least consider the idea?”

Crowley stopped, turned to him, and put his hands on the angel’s shoulders. “On one condition.”

“Anything, my dear fellow.”

“You will never complain about my book shelving skills again.”

“Yes, yes. I said I was sorry.” Aziraphale beamed. “This is going to be such _fun_.”

As they continued towards Soho and the bookshop, Crowley felt a twinge of apprehension all down his spine. 

_What have I done_?

♦

Aziraphale thought they could use a refresher course, so Crowley found the same-sex ballroom dance classes on the Internet, held weekly at a community centre in north London. When he and Aziraphale turned up one Thursday evening, they found a decent-sized ballroom with polished wood floor where a dozen or so couples were also taking the classes. Their instructor was very professional, and led them through the movements with an easy grace and an effective teaching style.

They began that evening with the simplest dance, the waltz. Crowley had no trouble picking it up again, nor did Aziraphale, and they were soon gliding smoothly around the room. Sometimes Crowley led, with his arm round the angel’s waist, and sometimes Aziraphale led, with Crowley’s hand on his shoulder. The instructor made the students switch the lead and follow roles frequently in order, he said, “to get to know your partners better.”

_As if I need to do that_.

Next came the Viennese Waltz, with slight variations and a faster tempo which challenged them more, but eventually their movements synched. When the evening had begun, Crowley had not been all that enthused, yet after nearly an hour of swirling around to the music he noticed, with a touch of surprise, that he was enjoying himself.

The class paused for a rest break, and they wandered over to a table where water and tea were provided. Chairs lined one wall, so they both took tea and went to sit down.

Aziraphale glowed with happiness. “I am having a wonderful time.”

“It’s not bad,” Crowley agreed. “You move well.”

“Thank you. As do you.” Aziraphale sipped his tea, then looked at him quizzically. “So you aren’t regretting this at all?”

“Well, I admit it wasn’t what I would have chosen.” Not that he had any better ideas as to how to fill his spare time. And it could have been worse – much worse. He shivered as he recalled the angel’s love of stage magic.

“But you don’t mind?”

Crowley drank his tea. “No, I don’t mind.” He truly did enjoy dancing. He paused as an old memory flickered through him. “Remember those galas that Lorenzo de’ Medici used to throw in Florence?”

“Oh, yes. Very lavish, and he always had the most scrumptious banquets.”

“And dances. There were dances.”

“Ah, I _do_ remember!” Aziraphale smiled. “We were both at one once, and I _do_ recall there was dancing – I _watched_ you dance then.” He sighed happily. “How could I have forgotten that?”

“Well, it’s been a while. Can’t remember everything we ever did or we’d probably land in a madhouse.”

“Agreed. One has to cut the excess out from time to time. Not the _important_ memories, though.”

“I’ve done the same thing.” Crowley realized they’d never discussed this before – the judicious excision of memories. It wasn’t feasible, even for spiritual beings, to keep thousands of years of memories in mind. So they were able to jettison the flotsam, so to speak, as needed. “I got rid of most of the fourteenth century.”

“Ah. So did I. What little I kept makes me believe it was all very nasty and full of pestilence and very, very damp.”

But he always kept the important memories, as Aziraphale had also remarked. Question was, which ones were those for the angel? He thought he knew.

They finished their tea, and the second half of the class began. This time they relearned the foxtrot, thankfully starting out with a slower tune in order to get the steps down before advancing to anything faster.

At the end of the class there was an optional hour of social dancing without instruction. Crowley’s feet hurt a bit by then, but a quick demonic miracle wiped away the soreness and he and Aziraphale continued floating around the ballroom, hand in hand. They practiced the foxtrot some more, as it was a bit trickier than the waltz, and by the end of that hour they moved so elegantly that when the music ended, the instructor gave them special praise.

Aziraphale was practically glowing as they left the centre. Though being an angel, Crowley thought, maybe he _was_ glowing.

As he drove the Bentley back to Soho, Aziraphale chatted contentedly about their dancing, about various fine points to the holds and the steps, and about the next week’s class which would cover the quickstep and the tango.

“It wasn’t so bad, then,” he said as Crowley pulled up to the bookshop, “finding a hobby to share?”

“This one I can handle. Just don’t go thinking up any more.”

Aziraphale got out of the car. “Will you be coming to the shop tomorrow?” he asked through the open window.

“Why, do you need me to shelve more books ineptly?”

“Just come by to keep me company. I’ll shelve them.”

“All right, Angel. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Crowley watched him until he got inside, then he pulled away, driving the car more slowly than usual. As he drove to his flat, he felt unusually contemplative – which was not a frame of mind he cared much for. 

He was thinking back over the evening, of how fluid they felt together, and he thought back over their conversation about memories, and which ones to save or let go of. He had never removed a single remembrance, through all those millennia, in which Aziraphale figured. There were records of this – both Heaven and Hell were good at keeping records.

Every time he had decided to erase an unnecessary memory, Crowley had been required to descend to the basement and enter it into his personnel file, so to speak, before getting rid of it. Once in a while, every hundred years or so, he went down to take a look at the records, just to make sure he hadn’t forgotten something he needed then for some reason. So he did know that he hadn’t removed a memory of Aziraphale, ever.

They were the important ones.

In fact, he knew, as he pulled up to his flat building, that they were the only ones that truly mattered.

♦

The following Thursday they returned to the ballroom for the next class. They got through the quickstep in a rather less adept manner, as it was complex and naturally had a fast tempo. Their feet were closer together than in the earlier dances, and toes were stepped on.

“Ouch,” Aziraphale said as they sat down with their tea during the mid-class break. He rubbed his foot, and then waved a hand over it. “Ah. That’s better.”

“Sorry.” Crowley miracled a bruise away from his left instep. “Maybe we ought to stick to the waltz.”

“Yes. I do prefer the waltz. This is a bit too modern.”

“Right. Came in during the 1920s, as I recall. _Far_ too modern for you.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I don’t _completely_ live in the nineteenth century, you know. I have a computer.”

“Which is decades out of date.”

“So? It does what I need it to do.”

He went a bit quiet then, and Crowley thought he must be annoyed at him, so he offered an olive branch of sorts. “You do keep up with modern food trends, I’ll give you that. I mean, there weren’t any sushi restaurants in the nineteenth century. Not in London, at any rate.”

Aziraphale perked up. “That’s true. I have always been keen on any new gastronomic discovery.” He sat up even straighter. “In fact, there’s a new fusion restaurant opening next month. Korean and Mexican, I believe.”

Crowley shuddered. He’d have to go with him, naturally. He always did. But only to nibble an appetizer or two, and to drink copious amounts of alcohol. “Not sure about that. Remember that time you mixed grapes and oysters in what – Paris, eighteen-forty something – that went sour fast. Good thing we can reverse food poisoning.”

“What was that?” Aziraphale stared at him. “Paris? 1840? Food poisoning?”

Crowley stared at him. “You don’t remember it? _Le Grand Véfour_?” How could he not? They’d gone to one of the grandest restaurants in Paris, where they’d had a long evening together. Aziraphale had come there on a book-buying jaunt, and to do a quick blessing or two, while Crowley was there to tempt a few priests into sneaking into a music hall to watch the can-can.

Naturally they had gone out to eat together – they had long since stopped meeting by chance, and quite commonly arranged to meet at frequent intervals, simply because they wanted each other’s company. 

They needed that, as the only two beings of their kind on Earth.

That particular evening, however, did not end that well. Aziraphale overdid his meal, eating things that didn’t go well together, and he wound up quite ill. So ill, in fact, that he couldn’t summon the angelic energy needed to cure himself.

Which was when Crowley did it for him.

They had taken a taxi to the hotel where Crowley was staying, and once inside his suite away from any potentially curious human eyes, Crowley had quickly miracled away all of Aziraphale’s pain.

The incident had taken something out of the angel – he looked worn, and tired. So Crowley made him lie down on the bed and told him in no uncertain terms to get some sleep. As soon as Aziraphale was lost to slumber, Crowley had climbed into the bed as well, just, he told himself then, to keep an eye on his friend. 

In the morning, when he awoke, the angel was gone. He didn’t see him again until a few months later when he finished up his tasks in Paris and returned to London. They’d never mentioned that night, and now, as Crowley looked closely at Aziraphale’s face, he realized why.

“You forgot it,” he said flatly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With a rising irritation, Crowley replied, “Of course you don’t. You removed the memory.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I couldn’t have done.”

“Why not?”

“Because I never took out any memories of you.”

Ah. Yet obviously, Aziraphale _had_ removed that one, and naturally, didn’t remember that he’d done so.

The music started up then, and the instructor beckoned them back onto the floor. “We are doing the tango next. A very close dance, one where it is critical that you do not let go of your partner at any time.”

_Great_. Crowley sighed and took Aziraphale’s hand in his, and they stepped onto the ballroom floor. After the lesson’s review of the movements, they began to practice, holding closer together than in any of the earlier dances.

As they were face to face, or more precisely, cheek to cheek during most of the dance, it wasn’t difficult to talk over the music.

“What happened in Paris?” Aziraphale asked. “Whatever it was, I can’t imagine erasing it on purpose.”

They came to one end of the dance floor, turned smartly, and with arms tightly together in front, they glided back across. “You ate something wrong,” Crowley replied. “You got sick, and I took you back to my hotel room to make you well. You were too ill to do it yourself.”

“I can’t imagine eating anything ‘wrong’ at _Le Grand Véfour._ ”

They turned again. “Not their fault – you ate grapes with oysters. On top of a lot of other questionable choices.”

“Nonsense. I _don’t_ remember it.”

Why would he remove the memory? As Crowley had thought, Aziraphale didn’t remove memories of them together. Yet he had. What did he want to forget?

Nothing happened in the bed that night, at least, not to his knowledge. They slept. That was it. Angels weren’t sexual beings anyway – nothing _could_ happen. They could express love, of course – angels were created to love. Physical desire was something else entirely, and best left to humans, who tended to complicate it beyond reason.

But then again, here they were dancing, cheek to cheek, and it felt good. And it was definitely physical…and this particular dance was quite sensual indeed.

Crowley felt an unusual quiver through his body as they continued up and down the ballroom floor, gliding, turning, holding each other tightly.

It was a very sensual sensation.

_Oh, Hell_.

The music stopped and they stepped apart. Was that why Aziraphale erased the memory – had he felt that tingle of sensuality that night? Crowley decided, there and then, that he didn’t want to know.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I’m not up for the social dance hour.”

“Fine.”

Aziraphale seemed unusually quiet on the drive to Soho. When they arrived at the bookshop, he got out of the car, and leaned in to the window as usual, and Crowley expected him to simply say goodnight.

Instead, Aziraphale said, “Will you come in? For a nightcap?”

_Never in a million years_. 

And then Crowley found himself saying, “Yes.”

♦

“1922 was a very good year.” Crowley felt, in the back of his mind, that some of his words might be slurred, but he dismissed that. They were, after all, on their sixth bottle of wine.

“Not as good as nineteen twenty-furth,” Aziraphale replied. “I mean, twenty-fuve. Five?”

Crowley sprawled on the bookshop sofa, his long lanky body taking up all of its possible space, while the angel lolled in his desk chair. Bottles of wine were lined up on the desk, awaiting their turn.

“It’s good this – wine.” Aziraphale stared at his glass, which was just about empty. “Good stuff.” He waved an arm expansively at the desk. “All of that there. Grand stuff.”

Somewhere in the inner reaches of Crowley’s mind, a tiny voice said, _We are having an utterly inane conversation_.

He ignored it. “I am absholutely in one hundred percentral agreement.”

“Couldn’t exist here without it.”

“Nah….” Crowley shuddered. “Imagine…no alcohol… _brrrrrr_.”

Aziraphale downed the last wine in his glass and reached towards the desk to grab another bottle. And missed.

He fell heavily out of the chair, catching his head hard on the desk corner, and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Crowley stared dully at him for a moment, until the reality of the accident penetrated the fog in his mind. He flung himself down on the floor and crawled over to the angel, who lay crumpled up on one side, eyes closed. There was a deep gash on his forehead, with blood flowing from it.

“Whatcha do that for?” Crowley had trouble focusing on his friend, but he knew he had to do something. “Clumsy idiot.” 

He sat there, staring at the empty wine bottles lying around him. _Too much_. Crowley concentrated fiercely, willing himself to sobriety. Slowly the bottles refilled.

“Aziraphale?” He touched the angel on the shoulder. He heard a soft moan. “You hit your head.”

“Mmmmph.” Aziraphale stirred, and opened his eyes. “Hurts. Lots.”

“Well, you hit the desk top. Hard.” Crowley waved his hand over the angel’s bleeding head. The blood stopped, and the gash healed.

Aziraphale tried to sit up, unsteady. “Thank you.”

“You need to sober up, Angel.”

“Yes, all right. Suppose I do.” He furrowed his brow, and groaned, and the rest of the empty wine bottles filled back up. “Handy miracle, that.”

“Humans would love it.” Crowley grinned. “Come on, get up.” He rose from the floor himself, extending a hand.

Aziraphale took it, and got to his feet. “Whatever would I do if you weren’t here….”

“Fall down more.” Crowley suddenly laughed. “Fallen Angel. Ha.”

“You are annoying,” Aziraphale said, though without any heat.

“I know. So are you.”

“Good. Now that we have that straightened out, perhaps it’s time to call it a night.” Aziraphale stared at his untidy desk, littered with bottles and glasses and cork stoppers. He waved his hand over it, and instantly returned it to normal.

Then he glanced at the desk clock. “It’s three in the morning. How did that happen?”

“Comes after two. And one. So I hear.” Crowley yawned and stretched. He didn’t fancy driving home to his empty flat. Not at all. But there was that feeling he had earlier, at the ballroom during the tango, that he didn’t want to explore _at all_. Still. He was tired. Very, very tired.

Aziraphale stared at him for a little too long. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m –“ Crowley stopped. No. He was not all right. There was a conflict battling within him, one side wanting to have an answer to a rather burning question, the other side wanting to shut it down forever.

In the end, curiosity won out, as it usually did, despite his best efforts to tamp it down. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“When we were on the dance floor, doing the tango, did you happen to feel anything…well… _unusual_ at any point?” 

He waited, utterly uncertain that he should have said a single word.

Aziraphale just stood there, _looking_ at him -- and, Crowley thought, actually _seeing_ him, within as well as without. Then the angel swallowed and said softly, “Yes. I did.”

_I am so not having this conversation_. But he was. “I think you felt it before once. In Paris. 1840.”

“Are you suggesting that I erased a memory?”

“I know you did.”

“Of you?” Aziraphale suddenly sat down in the chair. “Oh.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Angels are _not_ sexual beings.”

“No. I agree.”

“Then what—“

“It was _sensual_ ,” Crowley said. “Fine line, but important distinction.”

“Sensual,” Aziraphale repeated. “I suppose that could have been it. Not really in my area of expertise…I mean, we don’t experience what humans do – not _everything_ , anyway.”

“No.” He paused. “There’s love, of course.” And what, he wondered, was love between spiritual beings – purely platonic? Were there not other ways to express it – physical ways? Crowley felt utterly confused. What was he supposed to _feel_ towards Aziraphale, anyway? He loved him. That was the one thing he knew for certain. Perhaps he ought to simply know that one truth, and not worry about anything else.

Obviously, Aziraphale didn’t want to acknowledge anything else. He’d wiped that memory away forever. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley said.

“What doesn’t matter?” Aziraphale pushed himself out of the chair, and stepped close to him. “I thought you were saying something about love.”

As he stood there, close to the one who mattered most, Crowley felt an ache inside unlike anything he’d ever known. He wanted to share Aziraphale’s bed again – if only to sleep, if only to hold him. Aziraphale didn’t remember that they had ever done that before. He obviously hadn’t wanted it back then. 

Or – _perhaps he had_.

Crowley felt a wave of hope at the thought. _Perhaps he had wanted it_ , but was afraid to say so, and _that_ was why Aziraphale had erased the entire memory of that night. 

He had nothing to lose. “Angel, would you mind if I slept here tonight?”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “In my bed?”

“There’s only the one.”

“I – well, that is…Crowley, what exactly is going on in your mind tonight?”

“Complicated thoughts you don’t want to hear. Can I stay?”

Aziraphale stared at him, and finally said, “Yes.”

“Thank you.”

They made their way to the upstairs bedroom, where Aziraphale stood looking at the bed for some time, and he looked entirely too thoughtful.

“Are you going to sleep standing up?” Crowley said as he pulled off his clothes. “Fully dressed?” He quickly slid beneath the sheet.

“I have a nightshirt.”

“Well, put it on, then.”

“Right.” Aziraphale slowly undressed and then pulled on his nightshirt, and climbed in beside him. He turned off the bedside lamp, and turned his head towards Crowley. “Why exactly are you here?”

“I am trying to work something out. An old memory, a strange sensation on a dance floor, a reluctant angel or a wary angel – not sure which.”

“It sounds to me as if you are making things entirely too complex.”

_Possibly_. “Make them simple for me, then.”

“All right.” Aziraphale turned on his side to face him, his face barely discernible in the thin moonlight through the curtain. “We went dancing. It felt good. We are best friends who also love each other. It’s not physical in the human sense. It _is_ physical, or if you prefer, _sensual_ , in some sense. You believe, based on something that happened in 1840, that I don’t want anything physical between us to ever occur. And you happen to be wrong.”

“See? Too complex. I – _what did you say_?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I said, you were _wrong_.”

Crowley gave up. He had no idea what to think. “Did that knock on the head scramble your brains?”

“Of course not.” And then Aziraphale laid his arm on Crowley’s chest. “Apparently I erased a memory of you. Possibly because I didn’t want to admit how I felt all those years ago. But I know how I feel _now_.” He leaned in to kiss Crowley on the cheek. 

Crowley wrapped an arm around him. “I do not understand you at all sometimes.”

“You don’t have to.” Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “I don’t know exactly what I want, either. We can’t be human. But we can love each other in our own way, whatever that is.” He reached up to touch Crowley’s face. “And we can _dance_.”

_Oh, yes_ , Crowley thought as he held Aziraphale tightly. _Beyond any shadow of a doubt, we can do that_. 

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, we _can_.”


End file.
